Now You See Me (9 page)

The documentary about Danny's disappearance was a big deal. All over town other kids and their parents were sitting, like us, waiting for it to begin. At school everyone had been talking about it for weeks, the excitement building as the scheduled date approached.

“Are you going to be in it?” Rebekah Collins had asked me in history.

When I shook my head, she gave me a sort of pitying look, like I was missing out on something exciting. It didn't make me feel any better.

The truth was I could have been involved. I'd wanted to do it, but Dad had said no. “She's done enough,” he told Martha when she tried to convince him.

I'd opened my mouth to object, but Martha got in first. “It's just a TV programme, David. They only want to talk to her. What harm could it do?” Her voice was taut with frustration. “Couldn't Hannah—?”

“Drop it, Martha,” Dad cut in, his expression morphing into anger. “It's up to me, not you, to decide what's best for my daughter.”

Martha gave him a furious look, but she didn't argue. Nor did I. So as the adverts ended and the announcer introduced the programme, I was as much in the dark as anyone. I had no idea what we were about to see. Martha had never mentioned it since, and somehow I'd felt it better not to ask.

As the opening credits rolled down the screen, Lianna and Maisy turned and gave me encouraging smiles. I managed a thin one in return, but my attention was caught up with the music. It was haunting, sort of serious and eerie at the same time.

I glanced at Dad. He was staring at the screen, his lips pressed firmly together. He looked nearly as tense as me.

It turned out the programme wasn't only about Danny, but missing teenagers in general. It featured various kids who'd disappeared over the last year or so. A boy who took the bus home from school, but never got off the other end. Another boy who vanished seven months ago – just a few weeks before Danny. And a girl called Jenny who went missing after a house party last summer. They kept showing this photo of her, dark hair, dressed up in a short skirt with lots of black eye make-up, pouting at whoever took the picture.

But it was Jenny's best friend who stuck in my mind, the one who was with her the night she vanished. Jenny's friend didn't look in the least bit excited about being on TV. Halfway through describing the last moment she saw Jenny, she started crying.

“I keep thinking it's all my fault,” she said, covering her eyes with her hands, hiding her tears. “I go round and round, wondering what I've missed, wondering what I might have done to stop it.” I watched her, my own eyes welling, feeling like someone had climbed into my head and borrowed my thoughts.

Teens ran away for all sorts of reasons, said an expert psychologist, a man with wiry hair and huge bushy eyebrows. He listed the main ones: bullying at school, stress, depression, addiction, and physical or sexual abuse. I caught Maisy and Lianna exchanging a wide-eyed look, and my cheeks flamed – Martha and Paul were certainly watching this over at Dial House.

Could any of those things be true? I wondered, as they switched to an interview with one of the parents. Did any apply to Danny? And if they did – if he had been depressed or bullied or somehow abused – how come I didn't realize? How come he didn't tell me?

On the TV, the psychologist reappeared. While most teens ran away, he said, you could never rule out abduction.

Another furtive look between my friends. I felt my chest tighten and I almost didn't notice when the scene changed again. All at once I recognized the boating lake. Two kids on bikes riding around the edge of it. A girl and a boy, about my age.

A prickly, electric sort of sensation ran through my body. Danny and me.

Not really us of course. People pretending to be us. Which was even weirder somehow. I stared at the girl. She was exactly like me. Same light brown straggly hair and pale grey eyes, kind of skinny.

It was like looking in the mirror. Or at the twin sister I never knew I had.

I glanced at Dad. He was watching intently, a stiffness in his jaw, his forehead knotted into a frown. I knew just what he was thinking.

Martha must have given them a photo.

I looked back at the screen. Still the boating lake, but Danny and I had gone. It was last October, the policemen wading across the water, the crowd in the background. The cameraman, I thought with a frisson of panic – he hadn't been filming for the news after all.

I held my breath as the camera panned over the crowd, praying it woudn't fix on me, but the image dissolved before I could even appear in shot. Now we were looking at Dial House, filmed from the bottom of the drive. The camera zoomed in slowly to the front door, then the scene switched to Martha and Paul, sitting together on the sofa in the lounge.

“Martha, could you tell us how you felt when you first discovered your son had gone missing?”

The room looked strange somehow. It took me a moment to figure out why. They'd swapped the furniture around so Martha and Paul were sitting with their backs to the window, a flat blue line of sea visible in the background.

But it wasn't just that. Everything looked smaller, and sort of fake, like it was a film set, a place made up for a story.

“It's hard to describe.” Martha's voice sounded different too – uncertain, nervous. She was wearing some kind of make-up, and her skin looked too smooth, too perfect.

“At first you don't really believe it. You think he's going to come back at any moment. But at the same time there's this sense of increasing panic, this constant need to look, to try and find him.”

She kept tugging at her hair as she spoke, pulling it back in that way that made her appear stern and angry. Paul was clearly on edge too, his thumb twitching as his wife talked. He looked like someone who would rather be anywhere but there.

No sign of Alice.

“So at what point did you realize he wasn't coming home?” the interviewer asked Paul.

But it was Martha who replied, a pained expression around her eyes. “If we'd reached that point,” she snapped, “we wouldn't be sitting here now.”

The camera panned in on her face. “We still believe Danny will come back,” she explained. “That's why we're here, doing this programme. To raise awareness.” Martha paused. “Someone, somewhere, must know where he is.”

“So, if your son is watching this, Martha, what would you like to say to him?” the interviewer asked.

Lianna and Maisy swapped “as if” looks. They'd clearly come to some conclusion of their own.

On the screen, Paul coughed, but Martha's expression didn't change. She stared directly into the camera. It was like peering right into her eyes.

“Danny…” she said, then stopped.

“Go on,” said the interviewer encouragingly, but Martha shook her head.

“It doesn't matter. If Danny's watching this, he'll know exactly what he needs to do.”

Six weeks later Paul turned up on our doorstep, Alice bundled in a blanket, asleep in his arms, a carrier bag hanging from his elbow. It was gone nine on a Friday night but he was still in his work suit, the jacket crumpled from clutching his daughter.

“Hi, Hannah.” His smile was warm, but the strain in his face was obvious. “Listen, could you get your dad? I need to ask you both a favour.”

I turned to go upstairs, but found Dad standing right behind me, fixing Paul with a stony glare.

“What is it?” Dad asked, his tone abrupt.

I felt like kicking him for being so rude, but Paul acted as if he hadn't noticed, though I could hardly imagine how. Dad's expression was as cold as his question.

“I wondered if you'd mind having Alice for the night?” Paul asked.

“Why?” said Dad. “What's going on?”

Paul sighed, shifting Alice's weight in his arms. “I'm really sorry, David. You know I wouldn't ask if we weren't desperate. Can I come in for a moment?”

Dad hesitated for a second or two, then stepped back from the door to let Paul through.

“Bring Ally upstairs,” I said, not even glancing at Dad for permission. “She can sleep in my bed.”

Paul smiled at me gratefully and Dad had the sense not to object. How could he, given how often I'd stayed over at Dial House? I followed Paul up to my room, pulling back the duvet. Alice didn't even stir as he rolled her onto the bed, her face sinking into my pillow. Paul handed me the bag stuffed with various toys and books.

It was only as I trailed him back down to the kitchen that I started to feel really anxious. What had happened? I wanted to ask.

But I didn't have to.

“Are you going to tell us what's going on?” Dad's tone was borderline aggressive. I stared at his face, dark with stubble. Compared to Paul, he looked untidy, wild even.

Paul sighed and ran his hand across his scalp. “It's Martha,” he said. “She's a bit upset.”

By a bit, I knew he meant a lot. Martha never did anything by halves.

“Why?” I burst out. “What's happened?”

Paul frowned, hesitated. Studied me for a moment before coming to a decision. “I suppose you're going to find out sooner or later. It may as well be now.”

I sat on the chair next to Dad, a light sweat breaking out all over my skin. I felt hot and clammy, my mouth suddenly dry.

Paul raised both hands up to the back of his head, like someone surrendering. “God, I don't know how to tell you this.” He exhaled slowly, lowering his arms to his sides. They hung there, defeated.

“They've found a body.”

A gasp like air escaping from a tyre valve. I realized it came from me. No one spoke for ages. I tried to keep breathing but my chest felt stiff and tight. I looked at Dad, saw the agitation on his face, as if he were deciding how to react. Then he turned and reached inside the cupboard, pulling out the bottle of whisky; the one he kept for special occasions – or emergencies.

He nodded at the empty chair in front of Paul, who sat without protest. Dad got a couple of glasses and poured a finger's depth into each. Paul downed his in one swallow, wincing slightly, and cleared his throat.

“A fisherman discovered the body in the channel, about ten miles downstream, between Weston and Brean. It…he was male, young. Janet Reynolds came round to tell us this evening.”

I stared at him, slack-mouthed, trying to find some words. My lungs felt empty, useless, like deflated balloons.

“Is it…?” Even Dad couldn't bring himself to ask.

“We don't know for sure, not yet. But reading between the lines of what Janet said, it's likely to be Danny.”

“Can they tell?” Dad asked. “Danny has been missing, what…eight months now.”

Paul glanced at me, hesitating. I held his gaze.

“They…er…they've got to check the dental records,” he said. “We won't know for sure for a day or two.”

“So you can't be certain?” Dad said slowly.

Paul shifted in his chair. “No, not till the results are back. But no one else has been reported missing locally. Janet thinks we should prepare for the worst.”

A tidal wave of panic rose from my stomach, stopping just short of my throat. For a moment I thought I might pass out. I didn't dare look at Dad. It was all I could do to keep upright.

“I'm sorry.” Paul gave me a lingering, concerned look. “I didn't want to dump this on you. Not till we knew for sure. But Martha…she's taken this pretty badly… I thought it best to get Alice away.”

“Of course.” This time there was no hostility in Dad's voice.

“Is she okay?” I managed to stammer. “Martha, I mean…”

Paul sighed, long and slow, and lifted his hand to massage the back of his neck. His fingers were trembling.

“A bit better now, Hannah, thank you. The doctor came and gave her something to calm her down. I left her asleep in bed.”

“Shall I come round?” The second I offered I knew it was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn't want to see Martha right now. I wasn't sure I could bear it.

Paul shook his head. “If you could just look after Alice tonight. Give Martha a chance to rest.”

I lay awake, listening to the muffled sounds of Alice breathing, the unaccustomed warmth radiating off her little curled body. A faint light came in from the street outside, leaking round the edge of the curtains and casting a network of shadows on the opposite wall. Now and then a car passed, bathing the room in a momentary sweep of brilliance before plunging us back into night.

I'd been awake for hours. My stomach hurt every time I thought of Danny. Was he really…? I wouldn't let myself finish that thought. Wouldn't let myself go there until the time came when I had no choice.

I kept remembering Martha, too. All those times when she thought we'd found him. That glow of excitement, her voice vibrating with certainty as she described the latest sighting. The press release she sent out to the papers and the website she set up had attracted lots of attention. Danny had been everywhere, it seemed. And not only in England – he'd been spotted across half a dozen countries in Europe, as well as America, Australia, even Brazil. Each week Martha received emails via the website or the missing persons forums, and in every single one someone claimed to have seen him.

They were convinced – and convincing.

But it had never led anywhere. Most times the police couldn't find out who they'd actually seen – and when they did, it was never Danny. Martha would be pinched and silent for a day or two, until another message set her off all over again.

I learned not to get my hopes up, but Martha never did.

Though this time, I thought as I watched the room slowly brightening around me, felt different. This time didn't feel like another wild goose chase.

This time it looked like we really had found Danny.